


Kiss Me, Son of God

by youngmoneymilla



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Abuse, Dark Steve Rogers, Evil Steve Rogers, F/M, Hydra! Steve Rogers, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Smut, Substance Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, brainwashed steve rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-27 00:28:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17756318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youngmoneymilla/pseuds/youngmoneymilla
Summary: Hydra takes Steve for 384 days. On his first mission, he kidnaps you.





	Kiss Me, Son of God

He slides his fingers up your stomach, touches your throat, kisses your mouth. He tells you, you are the only thing he has every truly loved.

Even now, you are the only thing he has ever truly loved.

And yet it is not enough.

That is not enough to save him

* * *

Steve Rogers is kidnapped by Hydra for 384 days.

They scramble his brain – burn ashy marks on his temples that never seem to heal. They torture him day after day after day.

Until, finally his body gives out, his mind collapses and in its place he becomes Hydra’s greatest weapon. A perfect, mythical, larger than life predator with the face of a God.

And so, it is the biggest surprise to anyone, that he comes to you on his first mission. Hydra orders be damned.

First, he kills the Governor of New Jersey as commanded – slides into his family home and presses the muzzle of the silencer against his temple. Watches blood spray over the oriental rug. Red on cream and blue.

And then he goes to you.

He manages to sneak into the Avenger’s compound – some unconscious part of his brain knowing the paths and tricks to get in undetected.

You’re fast asleep. Peaceful despite the thinness to your frame, hollows under your eyes.

Your fiancé’s disappearance has rocked you. Ruined you. But, he doesn’t know that yet.

He doesn’t know the name Steve Rogers.  

He only knows your face.

He runs his fingers through your hair, blows hot breath against your neck and when you wake up, your eyes go wide as saucers

“Steve,” you whisper - amazed. “Oh Steve! Baby!”

He slides his arms around you, pulls you hard against his chest and lets you cry into his neck. Tears of joy wet and hot. His mask is discarded in his hands. His beautiful golden hair falls over his forehead. You don’t notice his new uniform.  You miss the blazing red skull of Hydra emblazoned on his thick torso of black Kevlar.

You feel a pinch at your neck and when you pull away he stares at you. His eyes unfocused and dull.

“What’s the matter? Where were you? Are you alright?” You touch his face before your sight grows fuzzy, your skin tingles and finally your eyes roll back.

His arms engulf you once again.

* * *

They’re not pleased that their “Asset” didn’t follow orders. But, you’re all he wants and so they allow it. Allow him to have his reward. They can use you to their advantage and they do. All the time.

On the third day, his handler strides into the room and rips you from Steve and forces you against him. He places a gun to your head. Steve is already there, teeth bared, a growl inhuman and broken sounding from his chest.

“You fail, she dies,” the handler snarls before tossing you ruthlessly back to him.

* * *

The cell they keep you in is small. Wet, slippery walls. A rusty metal cot. The first month, they have you chained to the wall since you have a habit of killing any Hydra guard that gets too close. Your skin itches, mouth goes dry. Wrists are chafed raw and bloody from the handcuffs.

Now, you don’t do much of anything but, lay there so, they take the bindings away. No one touches you except for Steve. No one is really allowed to.

In the beginning, he fucks you mercilessly. He fucks you against your will. He fucks you until you agree to love him again.

They fight violently, too. Fight and fuck like a piece of gnarled rope burning explosively at both ends until it meets in cinders and flame.

It can change from gentle to rageful in an instant – depending on the day – depending on where his brain allows him to go in that specific moment.

He places his hands in your hair, brushing it back from your forehead, combing his fingers through the soft, damp strands. His bottom lip trembles and he bites down to stop it. He keeps brushing at your hair pushing it until he can see your face clearly.

Stoic, placid eyes stare back at him and it makes him feel uncomfortable, itchy in his skin.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs against your lips. “Baby. Doll.”

These sweet words he must have remembered using for you but, he does not say your name. He does not know it.

His hand circles your core and he pinches the skin of your inner thigh wickedly. His movements so rough and un-Steve like that they make tears burn at your eyes. You can cry but, your body always betrays you. Always opens up to him regardless.

* * *

Two months inside, you try and escape. (Not)Steve is away and you manage to get down the hallway, through two corridors and into a stairwell. The alarm is already sounding off.

You need to get out. You need to leave. Then you can come back – you can save Steve, fix his brain like they fixed Bucky’s.

You get about as far as the basement before you realize you made a wrong turn. Your nerves and senses are shot. The Red Room had taught you better than this and you blame it on lack of food. Lack of daylight.

Like a shadowed demon, Steve appears in front of you as if he sensed the second you escaped. His broad shoulders take up the entire doorway, his expression hellbent beneath a curling lock of hair that makes him look contradictorily angelic.

Silently, he wraps his arms around you and drags you back to their room. You scream and kick, tell him that you were doing it for  _them_ and  _why can’t you fucking remember – steve, stevie, god damn it rogers_

He spills you on the floor of the cell and you get up immediately. The second he turns around after locking the door, you slam your fist into his face so hard his head reels back with the force of it.

Two dulled and flattened blue eyes stare back at you. His tongue comes out to lap at the blood that seeps from his cut lip.

“Steve,” you whisper, almost sorry.

His gaze sharpens minimally as he takes you in.

And then he is lunging towards you, grabbing you by both shoulders. He smacks his lips down upon you, throwing your head back so, that it crunches on the wall.

“You are mine,” he growls, breaking off the harsh kiss. “Mine.”

You stare up at him – sad, distraught, empty. “No. Not this Steve. Not this version of you.”

He slaps you across the face, speckles of blood form on the crease of your lips. You lick it away, raising an eyebrow. He falls on top of you, his entire body weight sinking down into yours, the floor is unforgiving against your back.

“Mine,” he rasps, soft and gentle.

“No,” you gasp before he twists your face back to his, fingers digging into your jaw.

“Angel,” he calls you, pressing another kiss to your lips, biting and nicking his teeth into your mouth.

He finally stops, rearing up to stare at you – quiets as if he’s forgotten where he is suddenly.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers. “Pretty little thing.”

You close your eyes, feel tears slip beneath the lids. He sounds like Steve - he is Steve. He’s a Steve who has been so completely shredded you wonder how he’s even still alive. You had seen his potential, his darkness in the years you had fought with him. So much raw power untapped and yearning to be released. The kind of power that he held back because he was always perfectly desperate to do  _the right thing_.

Now, Hydra had pulled it from him - pulled it and set a match to gasoline. They had broken his mind and there were no vestiges of control and decency left.

And yet you still loved him.

“Don’t cry,” he croaks – confused.

You sigh – the feeling of release. Of giving up.

You grip him by the back of the head and pull his lips down to yours.

You’ll show him your darkness, too.

* * *

Steve returns from another mission. His face covered in blood, his hair wet with it. You rise up on the bed, sitting back on your haunches. His eyes are wild, lips pulled down in a grimace but, when he sees you relief floods his face. He exhales loudly.

There are times when you forget that he has been tainted. Even with blood and brain matter covering his face and hair, dripping down his chin, short blunt nails coated in maroon - even then he’s still a golden boy.

He has no finesse now. No gracefulness. This Steve was animal-like, frantic and gluttonous in his killing.

You look him over, make sure he’s okay. A dark red stain is pooling along the thick muscle of his abdomen and you reach for him. He gently swats your hand away.

“You need to be careful,” you plead.

“It’ll heal,” he says under his breath before adding. “You know what I need.”

You sigh, looking up at him. His thumb traces over your bottom lip carefully before his other hand comes up and wraps around your throat. You feel his thick fingers flex against the delicate pulse point.

You know this will be painful. Harsh. You know you can take it as if you have taken all things thrown at you during your time as an Avenger. You survived the Red Room, after all.

But, you are breaking for a different reason. Bit by bit.

Watching Hydra destroy everything Steve represents is undoing you.

Lost in thought, you yelp when Steve shoves you onto the bed. His hands wrap around your ankles as he tugs you towards him. The thin mattress burns the skin of your back, coils of metal catching on your skin.

His eyes travel along your body: your heaving chest, the dips in your hips, your legs splayed open. He grips the thin cotton shorts and tugs them off as you slide your tank top over your head. His nostrils flare and tongue catches on his bottom lip. He can smell you.

He remembers your body. Remembers that even before he remembers your name.

“Knees,” he orders quietly, tangling his gloved hands into your hair as he presses you down to the floor.

Gripping the rough fabric of his black tac pants, you balance your hands on his thighs. You’re calm and he is near shaking – ragged breaths spilling from his lips. He looks down at you as you release his cock, let if fall heavy and half hard in your hands. You give him several languorous strokes and finally, finally press your lips to the red head of his dick.

You lick tenderly, gently – knowing you’re comforting him – taming him in a way. He groans loudly, full body shuddering beneath your tongue and hands.

His thighs tense beneath your fingers and you know the pace is going to change. He wraps both of his hands in your hair and shoves his hips forward, driving his cock into your mouth. It hits the back of your throat and you nearly choke on his length. He pulls out again – allowing you a moment to control your gag reflex before forcing his cock back into your mouth.

He groans – low and guttural – as he fucks your face. His balls hit your chin and he buries himself so deep that tiny light hairs prickle beneath your nose.

“Oh god,” he groans as he looks down at you. You can imagine what you look like: red eyes, spit coating your lips, tears burning with his thick cock in your mouth. The thought soaks your cunt and you let him drive harder and harder into you.

You can take it, after all.

Steve pulls your head off his cock without warning. He hauls you up and immediately sinks his teeth into your shoulder. He’s holding your body to his – boneless and heady – and when he shoves two then three fingers into your wet pussy you buck so hard against him he nearly loses his grip. Your bare heels catch on his heavy, thick soled boots.

He pushes you onto the bed and, suit still on, drives his cock into you without warning. Your head falls back and he places his hand beneath it so each bounce has your skull hitting his skin.  The brushes of his metal buckles, leather straps catch on your thighs and calves. The Kevlar burns you like shark scales. His cock stretches you harshly and you fist your hand into his hair to twist his head and bite him on the throat.

He growls and his eyes darken – fall deeper into lust. He likes when you hurt him.

He pulls out suddenly, rubbing himself against your wet heat. Grunts like an animal into your ear at the soft, velvet slide of cock against cunt.

This is how he’s going to kill you – keep you on the precipice of pleasure.

The room tilts beyond him as he thrusts into you again. His hands are everywhere: breasts, face, hair, arms and legs. Electricity sizzles between them. Somewhere in the moment - he’s yanked the top of his suit off, his pants pulled down to his ankles. The metal of zippers and belt buckles clacks crudely against the floor and bed frame.

Steve pumps into you. Harder. Faster. Rougher. Until you start to squirm beneath him.

Pleasure turns to pain. Your eyes fall on the cameras that are blatantly strapped to the walls behind his head.

Hydra is watching. Always watching.

You want to say stop but, you’d be lying. You really don’t want him to stop and even if you did, he probably wouldn’t have listened anyway.

You curve your arm around his neck, press fevered lips to skin. Let him whine nonsensically into your ear – let him be weak and vulnerable with you here.

You know him. You know how many men Steve has killed with his bare hands, the number of deaths he’s been responsible for, the number of soldiers who have fallen under his command. You know which of these lists keep him awake at night and which make him crumble into nightmares.

But, all of those things were always  _always_ for the greater good.

And this, this will surely kill him if he ever remembers himself.

You come back to the present- pinned down against the bed, a desperate noise falling from your lips, as he takes you apart in short, hard strokes. He comes with a groan – warmth flooding your core and spilling down your thighs.

He pulls himself up - his body still a marvel - sweat slicked, cauterized red furrows scrape down his torso from your nails, his muscular chest heaving from the exertion of fucking you. A flicker of pleasure, momentary peacefulness colors his face as he looks down at your body. Then, he stops, eyes narrowing down at you - as if he has forgotten something.  Wordlessly, he kneels between your thighs and nips at the skin. You attempt to close your legs but, he holds them tightly to his head- your calves rubbing his ears. His hand spreads you open and he cleans you out with his tongue - licking a broad swipe up the center of you and suckling at your clit.

Your back arches off the bed, a whine high pitched and loud comes tearing from your throat.

A small smug smile curls his lips and it makes your heart pound - aftershocks quaking in your belly.

* * *

He wakes and when he opens his eyes everything is in sharp relief - corners and edges and grim nothing. No light here. Only an ugly yellow glow from a sad light bulb that hangs above them.

He only knows the outside when they tell him to go there. He doesn’t like it. He only likes being here..being with you. Sometimes he wishes he could bring you beyond these walls – bring you in the sun.

He turns and finds you asleep and the sharpness of edges melts. You are anything but edges - soft and sinuous and his cock hardens at the sight of you. Your breasts fall pertly across your body, your hair framing your face, the slight openness of your lips as you release breath in slight puffs.

Bruises mar your chest, your neck. He was rough with you last night - too rough. But, his blood had been so hot from the mission, his fingers trembling as they gripped your hips when he rammed into you. He had almost screwed up - almost missed the mark due to being reckless.

And he knew they would have killed you had he done it. And that had frightened him badly. He felt few things but, fear made him ill, made him feel open and weak.

_He could not lose you_

His eyes catch the deep purple fingerprints on your wrists – red suctions on your throat. He would make it up to you. He wanted to make you feel good.

Boldly, he darts his tongue out to taste your nipple. Something primal within his belly telling him  _more, more, more_. You do not stir and soon he is suckling, nipping, singing on the joys of your flesh. He draws lifeblood from you as he sucks and he craves your fire, your devotion, your rage. He hates the sadness - hates those moments you turn your head from him and cry.

He doesn’t mean to hurt you. But, things get so muddled, broken - foggy. He did not know a life beyond these walls. He only knew of you - knew the trail back to you and so he took you because you were all he wanted.

You are tiny beneath him but, strong. Such unassuming strength that rides him hard and makes his eyes roll back. You punch at him sometimes, smack your fist against his chest, his cheek.

 _He loves it_. In the small unshadowed parts of his brain, he loves it. These violent things. The others hurt him, bleed him, burn his brain but, they cannot make him feel like you do.

He is grateful for that and perhaps, he will work harder. Work harder to remember the names you have given him: Steven, Steve, Stevie.

They taste funny on his tongue when he repeats them back.

He runs his hand down between your legs, passed the tiny cotton shorts. They’re not enough in this cold place and he always covers you with his arms to warm you - to protect you.

You stir, a small smile on your face. You’re dreaming - he knows.

He slides one finger into you, feels the tight clamping that your body does before your mind can think.

“Stevie,” you murmur. He kisses your throat, bites your earlobe. Cradles your head in his hands.

When you open your eyes, depressed disappointment floods your expression.

He knows you want to be anywhere but, here. He knows you want  _Steve_ \- another him.

As you reluctantly, heatedly return his kiss, he tries to ignore it.

* * *

Steve cries in his sleep some nights. His memories do not come during the day but, often by nightmares and dreams. Soon enough, you hear him murmur names:  _Nat, Tony, Sam, Bucky, Bucky, Bucky_

Your name falls from his lips, too. It sounds beautiful and you shake him awake almost immediately. You press him to remember, touch his lips and look him dead in the eye.

“Steve – tell me what you remember?”

But, of course, Hydra is always watching. Twelve guards storm the room and drag him growling and fighting from you. It takes twelve men to subdue him and five others to hold you back.

They scramble his brain again – send him through the chair. He comes back with marks on his temples, his eyes dead. It’s always so hard afterward. He acts out – accidentally smacks you hard across the face with his fist because he can’t remember who you are, can’t remember he loves you.

You let him. You always do.

* * *

One day, he  _does_ screw up the mission. It’s compromised when a man with a metal arm, makes him miss his mark. The man hauls him around the waist, pushes him to the asphalt so hard that he bites his tongue and blood fills his mouth. The long-haired man stares at him - wild eyed, lips opening and closing like a fish.

“Oh god,” he sobs. “It’s you.”

The man looks familiar - it touches something inside him and he doesn’t like it.

“Come with me,” the man pleads. “C'mon, you gotta!”

_But, he can’t. He won’t leave you. He can’t leave you. They will tear you apart._

A redhead appears behind him, her eyes wet and her hands at her mouth.

“Where is she?” she yells. “Oh god, Steve, what happened to you?”

He doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like that this woman calls you what you call him.

He flicks a button and sets off the dirty bomb he left down the street as a safeguard.

Then, he’s off and running - returning to the facility empty handed.

They don’t take kindly to that and they take you away from him. Three days you’re gone and he’s left wailing for you, pounding his fists bloody against the hard, dirty walls of his cell. He buries his face into the thin pillow, inhales the floral, heady musk that your scent had left behind.

The next guard who comes in - he regards with an eerie calm. When he gets close enough, he smiles, a skull-like recession of his gums.

He looks up into the camera before, quick as a flash, he breaks the man’s gun in his hands and grips him hard around the throat.

“Bring her back to me,” he growls at the camera, snapping the man’s neck beneath inhumanly powerful fingers.

They do bring you back. Preferring how calm he is with you as opposed to this wild, demon-like element of fire he is when you’re gone.

But, you return shattered. When they open the doors, you rush into his arms desperate for him. Blood and bruises on your skin. Fingernails removed. Your lip trembles.

They tortured you for the fun of it.

He vows right then and there that if they took you again. He would lay chase, as he always had and always will.

He’ll kill them all if he could.

But, he never gets the chance because they force him back into the chair and his emotions, his sharpness, his motivations are muddled once again.

* * *

An explosion rocks them from sleep.

The building shakes, the unforgiving light bulb that swings above them flickers.

“Stay down,” he orders as he puts his tac pants on.

Something booms down the hallway – there are shouts, screams, bullets firing like mad.

The hairs on the back of your neck prickle. “Wait,” you whisper, reaching for Steve.

The door explodes inward and Steve tugs you to him.

“Shit! Sorry about that,” Tony announces over the deafening war cries behind him. The mask of his Iron suit goes up and dark brown eyes slide over you.

Concern and horror floods his gaze when he sees the deep hollows beneath your eyes, the red scratches, the bruises black and angry.

“Found them,” Tony announces into his coms. “East Wing, 5th door down the second hallway.”

Tony simply stares at the two of you and your head falls back on the pillow – the exhaustion of everything now coming up to drown you in a sea of black. Steve is baring at his teeth, his hands flexing as he regards Tony with distrust. His body hovers over you protectively. 

Thor and Bucky enter the room not a minute later. The two of them look at you and then Steve, unreadable expressions on their faces. Shock. Despair. Confusion.

“Alrighty, then,” Tony mutters under his breath as he goes to you. The second he wraps his arms around you, Steve is right there growling and snarling, his eyes near black. Thor encases Steve in a band of muscle before he can punch Tony through a wall. He barely manages to hold him back – his strength evenly matched with a Steve Rogers who lacks all inhibitions and restraint.

“Calm yourself, Rogers,” Thor commands. “We are trying to help you.”

Barnes seems to shake himself from his shocked haze and grips Steve’s arms. “C’mon, Stevie,” he coaxes.

When Tony cradles you to him protectively – Steve literally howls. A rage that deafens Tony’s ears. He sees you flinch before you raise yourself up to press your lips to his ear and ask him, inexplicably, to bring you to Steve.

“Are you crazy?” Tony whispers against your ear. “He’s unhinged.”

“Do it,” you demand – weakly.

Carefully, he moves towards him with you in his arms – as if you were a baby being presented to his mother. Steve is still yelling unintelligible things, something that sounds suspiciously like  _my girl, my, mine, my girl_

His eyes are wild, his lips molded into a grimace. He looks distraught. You reach your hand out and cup his cheek, run it up into his hair. And as if you were an injection of opium to the bloodstream, he immediately calms. His eyes soften and his body goes pliant. He reaches for you but, Thor is already there – a shot filled with enough tranquilizer to make a blue whale go to sleep. He slams it into Steve’s neck and he drops to the floor, his hands still gripping the edge of your shorts.

You sigh heavily, press your face against Tony’s metal chest. Your eyes are vacant and Tony feels his heart drop.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he murmurs. ‘We’re going home.“

* * *

It is late July. Unbearable, sticky summer heat. Mosquitoes and humidity pulsating off of the tops of endless green trees. You’ve been gone eight months.

When you get home – you refuse to see Dr. Cho. Tony pleads with you to go and you ultimately compromise and let him send Helen to your room.

 It doesn’t take long for them to revive Steve. Shuri and Banner work overtime by implementing the same sort of technology they used for Bucky. It’s better and faster and poor Steve has little time to adjust until he’s awoken into rawness.

You don’t see him react when he comes back to himself. All you know is that you hear him – a deep, guttural roar and tears. So many tears.

Your heart breaks but, you don’t go to him. You don’t leave your room. You draw the curtains and wait.

You take four showers – scrub your skin until it hurts. You stare at the ceiling’s imperfections – the cracks and peeling paint in the corner. Scattered dents like spider legs. You toss a ball and watch it hit the ceiling – let the dust and plaster spill on your duvet with the strength of your throw

After you leave your bedroom - you go straight to Fury and ask him to put you on the next mission.

He regards you with caution - the slight dreariness of pity in his eyes but, he hides it quickly when you give him a look. "Alright,” he says. “First trip is to Iraq.”

You go everywhere - the ends of the Earth. Places that were just pinpoints on a map when they taught you about the world in the Red Room.

You find lovers there too. Civilians only. Girls who slug vodka tonics and offer up their pretty pink pussies - thoroughly enchanted by this beauty queen who tastes like arsenic. Boys who are never ever blonde but, who can pin you down and make you cum only to have the tables turned when you manage to toss them over the bed and ride them until they pop. You get drunk - do drugs - dance in clubs until your body melts and eyes glisten.

Bucky joins you on a mission to Thailand. He follows you like a loyal pet or more accurately a guard dog - staring with disapproving eyes as you drink rum, Thai Beer, and pop bubblegum to mask the heat of red hot chilies on your tongue. He goes out of his way to bring you to a nice restaurant after your mission is finished. Instead of eating, he watches you take a vial of white powder out and sniff it elegantly off a tiny silver spoon.

You offer him some and to your surprise he takes it, wrinkles his nose and shakes his head as he lets it drive up into his synapses.

“Bad boy, Barnes,” you singsong.

“I did it in the 70’s,” he shrugs. “They would test all sorts of things out on me. Gotta say it’s still nasty.”

You clam up then. The mention of Hydra even though he doesn’t say the name out loud.

He notices your reaction though - reaches for your hand. “Hey, sweetheart - ”

“Don’t, Barnes,” you grit out between your teeth and leave him to go bury your feelings in more alcohol, more strangers, more burning white powder. You leave your food untouched.

He finds you at Onyx in Bangkok- eyes half mast, bleary. Your skin dappled under colored lights, your face pressed into the bar top.

“I’m taking you home,” he barks over the pounding music, wraps an arm around you and leads you to the hotel room.

The two of you fall into bed and he cocoons you in his arms - listens to you whimper through nightmares. Lets you strike out against him in your sleep.

“Steve,” you whimper as you fist your small hand into his shirt.

Bucky’s heart breaks.

* * *

You don’t speak to Steve. Steve, of course, tells everyone about all the awful things he did. Remorseful and broken, he  wants to beg for your forgiveness.

The fact is is that you don’t even know what you’d be forgiving. He was brainwashed. He was not himself. Yes, because he loved you that made you his target but, it was not his fault.

You just don’t have the capacity to do that. Not yet.

You snort cocaine and drink. Drink it all away. Feel the warm burn flood your belly and make you deliciously, wonderfully numb.

* * *

Back at the compound, Nat and Bucky corner you.

One moment all of them are eating breakfast – well you’re drinking wine at 9 in the morning -  and the next, Nat is in front of you, gripping your face between her hands.

“You’re losing it,” she says tightly, searching your eyes. “You need to talk to someone – “

“Who?” you snap angrily. “Steve?”

“You should talk to him, darlin’,“ Bucky presses. "He’s a mess. Lost. Cries all the time. It’s honestly really bad.”

“No,” you reply, pouring more wine into your glass.

“What will it take then?” Bucky prods. “I know you’re hurting so badly. But, is plying yourself with alcohol some form of revenge?”

You nearly choke on your wine, before staring him down. “I think not giving a fuck is better than revenge.” It’s easy - slipping into sarcasm. Reflex.

“Looks like you give a fuck to me.”

“Fuck you, Barnes,” you hiss, slamming your fists on the table so hard the bottle tips over and shatters between them.

* * *

It’s too much sometimes and so you find yourself wandering into Tony’s lab.

He’s blasting Simple Man by Lynyrd Skynyrd - simultaneously strumming an air guitar with the screwdriver in his hands and fixing the rocket launcher on Sam’s wings.

You wave hello and he looks at you in that placid, inspecting way that he has. It always makes it so much harder to hide anything from him.

He’s too good at knowing you sometimes. It’s vexing.

They do small talk. You don’t tell him about the sleepless nights, the piles of lovers, the drug use and drinking. The ache in your heart that won’t go away because something imperative was taken from you when Steve, well Hydra, stole you that night. But, Tony does know a thing or two about trauma - certainly about trying to numb yourself with alcohol.

“Tony?” you ask hesitating.

“Yes, dear,” he replies, gentle tone that sounds like he’s been waiting to have this conversation.

“Am I being unfair?” you murmur. “To Steve?”

“No,” he replies fast as lightning. “I don’t know exactly what happened at that lab. I can guess.” His eyes darken considerably, a slight tremble in his fingers before he continues. “I know that you deserve to take all the time you need - “

"It wasn’t him, Tony,” you cut him off. “It wasn’t him. It was Hydra but, when I see his face it just - it all comes back.”

Your voice cracks and you swallow it quickly, curl your nails into your hand until it stings. Tony is looking at you with such concern it makes you nervous. You think of screaming.

“No one is asking you to get over this, honey,” he says soothingly.

“I don’t want to be pitied,” you snap a little more loudly than you intend.

“No one is pitying - ” You shoot him a look and he raises his hands in defensive mode. “Okay people are concerned. They love you. Whole team fell apart when you and Cap were gone. You’re the core of this unit.”

You snort but, offer him a small smile regardless. You shake your head, a sigh deep and hot coursing down your chest as you attempt to distance yourself from those terrible, delirious days in Hydra.

You regard Tony with stricken eyes, bite your lip. “I miss him. I love him.” And then softer, lower. “I fear him still sometimes.”

You press your hands to your eyes, crumble. “It’s so fucked.”

Tony sighs before walking up to you and dragging you against him - hugging you tight.

You push him away. “Not – it’s not that,” you mutter more to yourself than to him. “Not entirely, at least. I-I feel sick sometimes because he reminds me of how I should have tried harder to escape. To save us both. I gave in so quickly, Tony.”

‘Oh C’mon,” he replies gently. “None of it was your fault.”

“I liked it,” you reveal – under your breath. The razor sharp ache of that secret finally out.

Tony chuckles and you glare at him – feeling slightly naked and exposed.

“Darling – all of us have that dark side,” he soothes, petting your hair. “Story of our lives as super heroes, really. You and Steve need to forgive yourselves.”

“And if that takes forever?”

“I assure you that Rogers will wait,” Tony smiles. “Rogers will always wait for you.”

* * *

It doesn’t take forever.

You see him in tiny moments: the gym, the garage, across the table in the boardrooms.

One day, it’s the flash of his desperate face as you walk into the living room, hair messy and eyes rimmed in red. He’s probably having another flashback. You offer him a smile – once - it’s tiny and most likely inefficient but, he brightens.

He watches you, not saying anything, and you know it then – this won’t get any easier because you can read it on his face and in his skin. His eyes speak louder than his tongue ever could. You need to talk to him and yet you find yourself smuggling a bottle of vodka from the freezer and escaping to the roof.

Evening sky turns black-blue and sinks over the compound like a dark thread blanket. The air is clean and cold upon your face, it needles your nose as you breathe it in. You do it slowly, slow deep breaths as you tilt your head back and close your eyes. Ignore the tingling sensation around the edge of your lips.

A sudden wave of giggles overcomes you. It is so alien and unnatural and unremembered. You hadn’t laughed since before Steve disappeared.

You twist the cap off the bottle and take an icy swig, feel it burn hot down your belly. You’re so good at filling the holes with things that hurt you.

You hear him before you see him and ever so steadily you twirl around to catch Steve staring at you. He is a collection of shadows folding into themselves – flashes of golden glitter but, mostly dark upon dark upon dark.

You step onto the ledge and Steve jerks forward – you give him an irritated glance. Gracefully, you balance one foot in front of the next in between guzzling vodka form the bottle. Steve remains silent.

You look up at the sky, the stars jumbled and blinking above you. You turn back to him. “The stars are messy tonight,” you breathe out.

Steve glances at you – alarmed. You offer him the bottle and he shakes his head.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he finally speaks. “Can we please…can we please talk about what happened?”

You blink, your eyes impossibly hot and liquid-feeling beneath your lids.

“Damn you, Rogers. Go then,” in a voice that is low and scratchy, overwhelmed by the expanding, burning ache in your throat. No, you didn’t want to talk about it ever.

“Not a chance, baby,” he says – steel-like and resolved.

You step closer to the edge – feel the concrete rough beneath your toes.

“What are you doing?” Steve asks. His voice is hard and yet fear strokes the letters.  You don’t answer – merely hum to yourself, tuck your hair behind your ears. “Please get down from there.”

You ignore him.

“Get down.”

_Nothing_

“Get the fuck down, sweetheart,” he yells louder than he means to – fear in his voice.

It jolts your body – brings you back to your time with him in Hydra. With soldiers screaming in your ear and him dark and demented and desperate for you.

The cement beneath your feet doesn’t exist anymore. It’s all shifted, air moving around you in heavy bubbles that strangle and squeeze. You can’t breathe: nothing gets into your lungs and nothing gets out. It feels like a scratchy film, stuttered and grainy until the sun sinks and everything fades to black.

It’s an accident – kind of . You stumble a bit and Steve is there – bands of steel around your waist as he jerks you backwards and into him. The two of you crash to the floor. The bottle of vodka shatters – acrid and acidic. The stars still float above them unforgivably bright.

“Please don’t,” he whispers – frenzied against your ear. “Please God don’t do that to yourself because of me.”

“It was an accident,” you mumble weakly, stifled beneath his bicep as he curls his hands so hard into your hair it almost hurts.

All of a sudden, his voice cracks and he’s weeping next to you. Harsh, bone-wracking sobs that are breaking over you like waves of rough ocean. It stuns you.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” he mourns into your hair. “I’m so god damn sorry for what I did to you.”

You touch your cheeks and realize you’re crying with him, the dampness alien against your fingers. You haven’t cried in months. You haven’t cried since the first weeks he had brought you to that god forsaken place.

“It’s not your fault, Stevie,” you soothe, gripping his forearms. “It’s not your fault.”

* * *

There’s another break in. The entire compound is thrown into blackness in the middle of the night. 3 am. The witching hour.

They’re ready regardless as dozens of heavily armed Hydra guards infiltrate the building. Apparently, they got the wrong Intel that most of the Avengers would be gone. Instead, they are greeted with a full house.

“They must have some god damn alien technology because this is completely fucking unacceptable,” Tony practically roars as he blows a jet of energy through five Hydra operatives - sending them crashing through a window.

Steve strides out of his room, shield in place. His beautiful, familiar blue and red uniform fitted to his frame like a glove. Vengeance is written plainly across his skin – in the tight perfect lines of his face.

It’s been only a week since he had held you on the roof. But, his mind is on the mission and he looks like he’s ready to kill. The both of you are.

Because they won’t take you again. You’d die first.

That night they fight together better than they ever have before. Completely in sync, shield tossed between them, hands and fists. Bodies pressed back to back as they defend themselves.

Your nose is broken – crushed beneath the fist of some fuckhead Hydra goon. You growl instead of scream – and slam your knife hard into his belly – ripping it upwards. Three more guards intercept you from behind and hold you down – another comes close with what looks suspiciously like a tranquilizer and you desperately claw at the ground – trying to push them off of you.

You hear Steve roar and when you glance up he is charging them – pupils blown wide and expression feral. He rips them off of you and rips them apart – snaps one man’s arm, breaks another’s femur – gouges out an eye and all at once, he is shaking and surrounded by the dead.

Carefully you stand up. Steve is staring at you – eyes lost. A body lays at his feet, head skewed at the oddest of angles, nearly torn from the neck.

And when you look hard at him, you see it. finally you see it. You see how utterly terrified Steve is, he looks exactly like he did when Tony had taken you from him, when Hydra had taken you from him, and your heart breaks. Before you can think, you find yourself rushing towards him, jumping into his arms and wrapping your hands around his neck as you hold him to you.

And then you’re kissing him, a raging kiss that burns your blood.

There’s nothing to say to that, so Steve kisses you back, brutally, pushing you up against the wall, lifting you up so you’re pelvis to pelvis as his body impacts with yours, and a wave of frustrated, broken desire courses through him as he runs his fingers through the unruly mass of your hair, his whole body singing with relief.

His tongue finds inexplicable ways to speak with yours without the awkwardness of words –  _I love you. I’m sorry. We made it out. We’re safe. Together. Together. Together._

“I’m sorry I stole you,” he whispers, lips moving and sliding against yours with each word. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you – they burned everything out of my brain but, I remembered you.”

You hush him. A hundred thousand flutters of gold and blue flap behind your eyelids.

Holding his face between your palms, you nudge your nose against his. He smells like himself again - like citrus and spice and Dove soap. There is so much that they will need to discuss – to overcome. But, you love him. Despite the thousands of ghosts between you, you love him.

You kiss his lips – tenderly and wet.

It’s all he needs to know that they can start again.


End file.
